


Playthings

by SociopathicArchangel



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Desert Bluffs, Gen, Mini-Vale, Night Vale, Severe AU, don't blame me for writing angst finknor is giving me material
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 23:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10887186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociopathicArchangel/pseuds/SociopathicArchangel
Summary: Palmer starts crying when he can see the stars, and doesn’t recognize any of the constellations.





	Playthings

**Author's Note:**

> written: May 5, 2017
> 
> any development in the actual WTNV podcast past episode 107 has not been put into this fic, considering i wrote this while staying in a linear timestream and can't be bothered to timetravel
> 
> it's au okay

The new house is sturdy and comfortable, but most of the appliances are made of plastic. It’s not a problem, since their benefactor can cook (honestly, all he does nowadays is cook), but sometimes Palmer wants to work with his own hands to keep his mind off things.

The Scientist has promised them that he’ll try to find a way to get electricity and usable technology in their houses instead of the ridiculous plastic decorations. Not much faith is banked on that statement; it’s hard when it’s coming from the being that destroyed your town.

Their new area has something that passes for a sun (“That’s a lamp, dear.”), and since they’re positioned by the glass wall (“Window.”), they can see the moon. It’s more luminous than the one they’d had before, and sometimes it changes shapes, but it’s a moon.

Palmer looks at it every night. The first time it’d disappeared, he’d spent five minutes curled up on the floor of his room, trying to remember how to breathe. He hadn’t realized the roof to his house had been taken away and hands had picked him up, warm and welcoming in a way that reminds him of the sun, and cradled him carefully, murmuring assurances.

Everybody sat through an explanation of the phases of the moon. It turned out he wasn’t the only one who’d had a breakdown, and the noise had alerted their benefactor that something was up.

It’s never really searing hot anymore in the town, not that searing hot days were common, or that their home really was a town rather than a glorified doll house. The only clouds Palmer can see are the ones outside the glass wall, and it never rains, not unless they’re sprayed with those huge containers that have nozzles on them, and while the children find it funny, their benefactor worries about it sometimes.

Water is weird, because on one hand they could be left with those huge bowls or they could just all march into what was supposedly the bathroom and use the giant bathtub as a makeshift ocean by telling it an exceptionally bad joke (if the faucet isn’t angry enough at the joke, they’ll get actual water instead of blood). Palmer has never been to the ocean. Palmer hasn’t been much of everywhere.

He’s always just been at home.

He misses home.

* * *

 

“I can’t believe it.”

Carlos sighs, Cecil ducks his head, Steve Carlsberg worries his lower lip as he fidgets.

Kevin pinches the bridge of his nose and closes still-black eyes, sadly never fixed, and takes a deep breath. “And you say,” he starts, “That their homes have been pillaged for years.”

“It’s not like we knew,” Carlos says, “City Council doesn’t exactly tell us a lot of things.”

Kevin turns to Cecil, who just sags, and the sorry state makes Kevin drop the tension in his shoulders and dejectedly mirror the action. Honestly. He can’t even find the strength to be mad because, first: screwed over by higher powers? He’s been there. Second: actual effort to try and change mindsets? He’s been there too, except for him it was more of trying to overcome brainwashing.

“It’s okay,” he says, “I just – this poor town.”

“They’re called Night Vale too,” Cecil says. Carlos puts a hand around his shoulders and he almost melts into Carlos’ side. “I – I met a…little me.”

Kevin’s lips quirk up a little bit at that. He turns to Carlsberg. “Did you get all of the houses?”

“There’s still some out there, I think,” he says, “But we have most of the town. They’re still intact.”

“Mm. And remind me again, Carlos, why you think it’s a good idea for them to be under my roof?”

The scientist takes a while, licking his lips before looking Kevin straight in the eye. “You’re not from Night Vale.” Their lines of sight hold, and it’s impressive for Carlos to not flinch at the unnaturalness of Kevin’s eyes (although a year in the Desert Otherworld might have helped), until Carlos realizes the bluntness of his statement and rapidly backtracks. “No offense, of course, but – I just think they could stay with someone who hasn’t had a hand or isn’t remotely related to the destruction of their town.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I look like your dear husband, _and_ your dear husband’s little doppelganger.”

“I know,” Carlos says, “But they haven’t really reacted too badly to gigantic people looking like them. Also, again, since you don’t really have a mini-you…”

“It’s less weird.” Kevin runs a hand through his hair, getting longer now, left unchecked ever since Strexcorp was run to the ground. And good riddance. He’s always hated the stupid hair regulations.

They show him the town, which looks like a tiny model of a cityscape, absolutely gorgeous, if not for the general state of disrepair of the buildings. He can see tiny people walking around when they first step inside Carlos’ lab, but when the tiny citizens notice, they instantly duck for cover, speedwalking or outright running into houses.

There are soft sighs behind Kevin.

“Their needs are just like ours, only smaller, and we’ve been trying to create miniature technology for them, but it’s taking time,” Carlos says, “And in the meantime, they’ll need to have someone to make sure they’ve got food somehow, and water, and regulate room temperature so the air conditioning’s not too cold and everything.”

Kevin lets his eyes roam around the tiny city, looking at the worn-down stretch of what was probably asphalt, at the dull buildings, at the tiny windows that have blinds that occasionally open to check if they’re still there.

He looks at the radio station.

He sighs again.

* * *

 

The sunset is loud, louder than Palmer’s ever heard it, but the sky above them is shot with a striking orange that threatens to blind him, and he can’t stop the grin that’s forming on his face. The children gathered down on the metal surface below them are silent, looking at the clouds and the sky and the sun.

“I’ve never seen this sky before,” he confesses.

Their benefactor hums softly, just enough that his voice doesn’t hurt Palmer’s ears. The giants always talk so loudly.

“Have you seen it at night?” Kevin asks.

“No,” he says. His eyes are getting wet and he’s trying hard to stop himself from crying, but he can feel his chest get tight. He hasn’t seen any sky since Huntokar took theirs. He hasn’t seen any stars in a very long time.

“Maybe we’ll stay,” Kevin says, “As long as you can all stay warm. Hang on; I think I brought a blanket.”

They’d all been wary when Kevin announced they were going out. Everyone had huddled inside a huge box that had cloth folded inside of it so they could sit properly and Kevin had put them in the passenger seat of his car. The blue above them had whizzed by so fast and Palmer had watched, almost dizzy, until they finally stopped at the edge of this town – this also-Night Vale.

They all stay, although Kevin lays out a blanket on the hood of the car and then lets everyone huddle under smaller ones, enough for about ten people to share.

Palmer starts crying when he can see the stars, and doesn’t recognize any of the constellations.

* * *

 

Sometimes also-Steve Carlsberg stops by. Palmer had been reluctant to talk to him at first, in case he was different, but aside from a few things, he’s pretty much the same. Except he’s happier. Steve – Palmer’s Steve – hadn’t been happy in a very long time. He’d smiled, sure, and he’d laughed, sure, but it was those smiles that made you think of self-pity and frustration, those laughs that broke off as sobs.

Also-Steve tells them stories, and he’s loud at first, but eventually Kevin teaches him how keep his voice low enough that it doesn’t hurt their small ears. He talks about the lines in the sky, he talks about his theories, he talks about the government that they clearly can’t trust, especially with the recent developments.

He talks about Abby and Janice, and Palmer tries very hard to listen instead of remembering his best friend. He talks about also-Cecil and Palmer can’t imagine any iteration of himself hating Steve. He wonders what his other self is like. It’s not like he’s really talked to him.

On that note, he’s never really listened to the radio either. It’s weird, hearing your own voice filter through speakers, reporting on a town that has the same name as yours, reporting about people who have the same names as your friends, and knowing that’s not really your voice or your town or your friends.

Also-Cecil hasn’t visited. Palmer’s not sure he wants him to.

The Scientist has though, once, twice. To talk to them, to ask, to promise. Barely anyone really talks to him unless also-Steve and Kevin pass messages to him. Palmer has talked to him once, and he spent the entire time either avoiding looking at him or just outright staring.

He’s gorgeous, Palmer thinks. And dangerous. It’s horribly cliché for something beautiful to be awfully destructive.

* * *

The tiny cup is adorable, Kevin thinks, and very considerate. He’d have to thank Janice for gathering her scouting troop to collect as many miniature toys as possible to donate them to the little town while they still have barely enough working machines. Their factories are shot and their only resource for their needs right now is Night Vale. At least they have lights now, with Carlos rigging up LEDs and connecting them to batteries. Each tiny house had a battery now, and hopefully they’d be able to set the town into their own sustainable environment. Like a terrarium, maybe.

“No, I’m not putting them in an aquarium, Sam.” Kevin had immediately shot down _that_ particular suggestion. Just because Mini Vale got saddled with a Bluffian for a guardian didn’t mean the Sheriff had to pull jokes _that_ mean.

“It was a suggestion.”

“It was a horrible one. Good day.”

Currently, Cecil – Tiny Cecil? Mini Cecil? Palmer Bite-sized? – is sitting down on one of Kevin’s pillows (the one that behaved and didn’t try to eat anything set on it), wearing pajamas and looking like he’d clawed himself out of a grave. Or screamed himself hoarse from a nightmare. He’d continuously murmured ‘I’m alive, I’m alive, we’re _okay’_ when Kevin got to him, screaming in that little, uncared house of his.

Without the Smiling God in his ears, the silence is overwhelming, and a quiet Voice knows, above all, how to listen.

There’s a cup of tea in Mini Cecil’s hands, which is funny considering Cecil Palmer – this Night Vale’s Cecil Palmer – prefers coffee. Kevin’s given him a handkerchief to wrap himself in, and he’s calmed down considerably, but he’s staring at the pillow and he’s not blinking.

Kevin takes a sip from his own cup of tea and waits.

“Sometimes I dream about when we saw the sky open up,” he says, voice so small, but Kevin hears it. Kevin Sees and Kevin Hears, because it’s his job as the Voice of Desert Bluffs to be hyperaware of everything he cares about. “And then there he was – that giant stepping into our town and carelessly marching about. I remember us trying to fight back. I remember it raining so much red.”

His breath hitches and he takes a sip of his tea, tiny hands shaking. “I remember the day Huntokar took our sky, and we thought, maybe she’ll give it back if we repent or if we were more obedient or – ” Reaching up to wipe tears. “The giants always came back, and we always tried to fight, and John Peters went and S-Steve went and we all just tried to hold on for the hope that we would be okay again.”

Cecil – because no matter where he’s come from or what size he is or if he’s still a Voice or not, this is undeniably Cecil – hunches over and sobs. Kevin sets down his cup, reaches over and scoops him up, careful. Cecil curls against one of his fingers and Kevin can feel the tiny tremors wracking through him.

He stays like that for about twenty minutes, just crying.

When he’s calmed down enough, Kevin holds him close to his chest. The thrum of someone’s heartbeat always soothed him to sleep. Kevin doesn’t know why, but maybe it’s reminiscent to hearing the heartbeat of the universe, to hearing the progression of time, to just finding something to listen to other than your own sobs.

He thinks of the Smiling God, he thinks of his destroyed town now split into two – some assimilating in Night Vale and others trying to build new lives in the Otherworld, and him working as intermediary between a disunited Desert Bluffs. He thinks of this little town, still held together and somehow still falling apart.

If the universe does not pity, then perhaps its people can.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: aseraphfell.tumblr.com  
> twitter: @LeviticusAW  
> youtube: https://www.youtube.com/user/kageroujo


End file.
